


inebriation: a dazed and staggering state.

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Pre-Slash, UST, vampire metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s kind of a limited choice question, isn’t it? There aren’t enough options to make it a trick question — you’re either my psychiatrist, or we’re having conversations. You didn’t leave me any room." </p>
<p>"Room for what exactly, Will?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	inebriation: a dazed and staggering state.

**Author's Note:**

> a request filled for drunkmongoose.tumblr.com, who wanted will to get drunk and blurt out his feelings during an appointment. i... didn't do that. instead i had will get drunk and just show up at hannibal's home. i've considered continuing it. non-proofread and just written non-stop without edits (as most of my fics are.)

He remembers the winters of his childhood the most. His mother wrapped in too many scarves, scarves she adorned him in,  _the worst of the cold is felt in your neck, Will._  But he remembers that he felt safer, like the scarves were security. Even at that young an age he felt uncomfortable with people, around people, and when he thinks that maybe his mother was trying to make him feel a little more safe around people, more guarded, he begins to drink. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he bypasses wine and lets the hard stuff hit his throat, lets it burn a line of honesty-enhancing liquid down into his gut. 

-

"My mother- my mother," he tries, words sticky but not slurred, “She was trying to protect me."

Without so much as a blink Hannibal opens the door wider, cloaked in his bathrobe, “Come in, Will."

He isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or Hannibal’s state — it’s late, and Hannibal has clearly been asleep, his hair just this side of askew — but those short five seconds disorient Will profoundly. He closes a hand around the doorway’s entrance before pushing himself inside, past Hannibal, who he can hear inhale. Nasal.

"You’re smelling me again," he says, but doesn’t accuse, matter-of-fact as he sits himself down at the first seat he finds available, one in Hannibal’s kitchen, a seat at Hannibal’s table. Hannibal. The name keeps going through his head. He’s certain he reeks of cheap liquor.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just pivots around him so naturally that Will starts to think of constellations and then planets and their moons, and he almost voices his specific thoughts aloud. He manages to hold back.

The faucet turns on. Hannibal is preparing him a glass of water. 

"No." He shakes his head. “I’m in the mood for something with a higher volume than h20."

He isn’t sure why he finds Hannibal’s hesitation, his pause of hands, his brief look of concern, suddenly  _fake_ , but he does.

"Aren’t we all allowed a little self-medication, doctor?" He asks, missing Hannibal’s look, because he himself is looking at the cabinet where he knows his psychiatrist keeps his alcohol.

-

Glasses are poured, Hannibal seats himself, Will continues to drink. They sit in silence after the initial questioning -  _I_ _hope you didn’t drive yourself, I can’t remember if I did, you’re still missing time?, that isn’t why I’m here._  - and then Hannibal asks about the first thing Will had said to him that night.

"There were… scarves," he explains, almost helplessly, because his mind is too busy. He moves positions as he thinks, because Hannibal is sitting across from him like this is a therapist visit and it just  _i_ _sn’t_ , and Will doesn’t try to justify the way he moves to sit directly beside Hannibal, though he can admit it makes his mind even busier. 

Bathrobe. He glances down, looks at Hannibal’s feet beneath the table, bare. Where the robe splits at his calves he can see those are bare, too, and suddenly he’s wondering just how much Hannibal put on beneath. It strikes him odd, because he’s seen the man in bathrobes before, always over pajamas. He isn’t sure what time it is, but he’s almost completely certain Hannibal is naked beneath his robes, and that must mean it’s very late. 

"Scarves?" Hannibal inquires, but Will’s long forgotten why he even brought scarves up. His face feels numb and hot, the tips of his fingers itching. 

"I nodded. When you asked, I said all of the above," he murmurs, and Hannibal gives him a confused look, that pinched brow. Reiterating, “‘Are you my psychiatrist, or are we simply having conversations?’" He slides a fingertip softly around the rim of his glass, and any other time he would have felt like a fraud, here among the high class and high thinking. But he doesn’t now. He’s too drunk, and it’s  _Hannibal_. He’s watched Hannibal silently judge a lot of people for their rudeness, their lack of taste. If anything, Will is a dulled knife in comparison to the rest of Hannibal’s sharp-cut company, but he’s always been treated…

"And I said yes," he continues. “I really hated you for that question." 

And there’s that first hit of honesty. The alcohol keeps him from regretting it in the moment; there is time for regret in the morning. 

"Why?" Hannibal asks, his voice that matter-of-fact dry that Will’s noticed is perfect for keeping patients at a professional level but works somehow backwards for him, somehow pushes him closer to the man, mentally and physically: his own hand is less than a foot from Hannibal’s, and the other’s breath is felt like Alabama humidity against his neck. Abigail wears scarves to conceal her scar and his mother dressed him in scarves like the rest of humanity were vampires.

"It’s kind of a limited choice question, isn’t it? There aren’t enough options to make it a trick question — you’re either my psychiatrist, or we’re having conversations. You didn’t leave me any room." 

There’s an urgency to his voice that he pretends isn’t there, and there’s an urgency in Hannibal’s expression that Will doesn’t notice.

"Room for what exactly, Will?"

-

He doesn’t answer for a long while, and blesses Hannibal for his patience as he downs drink after drink. Somehow, the other manages to sit silently, almost obediently giving him refills when requested. When he answers, it’s not in a way that even he himself expects.

"I always show up here. Time… slips away from me, like a fish in an already oily grasp. I show up here and I — sometimes I think I’m going to start saying your name in my sleep. Sometimes I think I already have. I wake up and I…"

Silence follows. He chances a look at Hannibal, the cut of his cheeks, the look on his face. He feels his eye twitch as Hannibal lifts a hand, and his wrist burns where he wants Hannibal to place it.  _Please. I’m sick for twisting what should be a comforting gesture into…_  His thoughts blur. 

"Go on, Will." Hannibal’s voice is so patient, but now so warm, so  _low_. He reaches for his glass and suddenly the man’s hand is exactly where he’d wanted it, long fingers closing firmly around his bony wrist. He closes his eyes against memories, memories of his hand beneath the covers and his other hand even further beneath the covers, memories of how he’d used the other man’s voice to-

“ _Will_." Firm. His eyes snap open and he wets his lips. Hannibal’s eyes flicker down, towards his mouth, and he feels his hand open and close of its own accord. Hannibal’s grip tightens and his chair makes a scraping sound as he pushes himself closer.

He thinks he almost tilts out of his chair, because Hannibal’s free hand is now closing over his shoulder, steadying him, pushing him up (or drawing him closer, or is that just him, he doesn’t want it to just be him, it’s been just him for so long).

"I wake up from nightmares," he starts, watching the way his wrist and the other’s hand fit together, “always surprised I’m not at your door." He twists his wrist a little, testing, and when Hannibal’s hand tightens further he twists it again, just to the point that it makes Hannibal’s knuckles whiten.

He’s so fucking hard.

"I can’t keep count anymore, Doctor Lecter. I can’t keep count of how many times I’ve woken up and bitten my tongue to keep from whispering your name as soon as I do." 

And now he can’t stop. Hannibal is watching him so intently — eyes dark, calculated, and he can feel his own adam’s apple move as he swallows. 

"And I can’t keep count of what happens before the nightmares, either," he starts to say, then pauses before adding, “Hannibal." Speaking the name makes him  _need_  more than want. 

"Tell me." Frank, but it isn’t the voice of a psychiatrist’s anymore. It’s a little rough, and now he knows he’s being pulled in, can feel the tug of Hannibal’s hand and he follows like a duckling that’s imprinted. The noise he makes is that of a newborn pup’s.

"I can’t keep count of how many times I call your name," he whispers, realizing how close they are, because his breath is ghosting Hannibal’s lips; he can feel it roll off, back onto his own. “Don’t ask me that question ever again. Conversation isn’t all we have. Or it shouldn’t be." 

Hannibal’s hand, sliding through his hair, fingers searching through curls, sneaking towards the edge of his neck. He thinks about vampires and scarves again. He thinks about reading Dracula the first time and then he doesn’t think anymore. 

He tilts his head, bares his neck. 

And then, just quiet enough that Hannibal can barely hear, 

"Take it."


End file.
